


But It’s the Perfect Place to Start, My Love

by Enisy



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Getting Together, James Bond References, M/M, Master/Slave, Undercover, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: Bashir and Garak go undercover – but not in any way Bashir had anticipated. Featuring UST, URT and more spy tropes than you can shake a stick at.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	But It’s the Perfect Place to Start, My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



> Written as a gift for Equality Auction 2020. Many thanks to [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios) for beta-reading an earlier draft of the story! All remaining mistakes are mine.

When Garak had suggested he tag along for an ‘undercover mission,’ Bashir had nodded so energetically, he’d almost pulled a muscle. _Unde_ _r_ _cover mission!_ The words had seemed to light up the inside of his skull, projecting images from his agent holosuite program. Tuxedos and ties. Sloe-eyed femmes fatales. Handguns loaded with that archaic ammunition, bullets. Tongo games that revealed all sorts of truths about the players, from their broader intentions to their most intimate character traits.

He should have known better.

“I’m not signing off on a mission without a full briefing, _ever_ again,” he said, voice rising in pitch and dropping in dignity as the sentence progressed.

The mission was clear enough. They were to travel to the planet Trebulon, where they would plant disinformation about the ruling party in order to help a newer, smaller and more… manumission-happy politician rise to power. A gambit by Section 31 to abolish slavery there. But of course, Garak had left out the fine print.

Their stunt called for a _particularly_ unsavory bit of roleplay.

“I mean, why do I have to be the… serf?” Bashir grumbled.

“Doctor, that question is an insult to everyone’s intelligence – mine, yours, and indeed, M’jendra the Bloodthirsty’s.”

Garak nodded at the alien in question, who appeared to be window-shopping for shawls. Then, he gave a hard yank to the laces of Bashir’s attire. It was a kind of catsuit with over a hundred tiny fastenings, and it had _not_ been designed with human lungs in mind.

“After all,” he said, “Trebulite slaves tend to run… hot.” He paused meaningfully. “That is to say, warm-blooded.”

_Oh._

Bashir felt his breath catch. And he wasn’t fool enough to attribute it solely to his tightening wardrobe.

Garak was flirting again.

This new trend had started a few days ago. Or, well, at least Bashir had _registered_ it a few days ago – could it have been going on for longer? Over lunch, in the midst of a spirited debate about Legate Eidak’s memoirs, Garak had asked him to pass a plate and – at the close of that transaction – brushed his thumb over Bashir’s with obvious deliberation. In the following days, he’d repeated this action with a PADD. A jumja stick. A tricorder. And a runaway Bengal cat, which used the opportunity to cover both their hands with bites and scratches.

It was a joke, of course.

It had to be. Bashir had become somewhat adept at distinguishing between Garak’s gravity and levity, between the truths and the lies, and there could be no other explanation for this sort of physicality. Attraction? Sentiment? No. Not a chance. _Real_ Cardassian courtship was much more oblique, much more aggressive.

“I guess biology is a hard mistress,” said Bashir, surprising himself with his own rancor.

He took hold of the suit’s fastenings, and pulled back from Garak, pulled _away_ , retreated with his body the way he couldn’t with his mind.

His mood understandably stayed in the _wallow_ range all morning: did not even come close to _swinging_ , much less _soar_ _ing_. And the beauty of the planet Trebulon just blackened his spirits further. What did he care about the rose-furred fauna and the six-hour sunset when they’d be holed up in a bar all day? What did it matter that he got to be a spy, if it meant that Garak saw him like this?

(What did it matter that Garak saw him like this?)

For some time now, his friend had been talking to the Ferengi businessman at their table. He was a major power broker in these parts, and all too happy to flaunt that power, with his fitted suit and oversized rings, and his – count them – _six_ golden teeth.

“Oh, I trust our friend Akios as far as I can throw him,” Garak was purring. “And, if I must say, my throwing arm is not in peak condition. When I need something thrown… why, I can always ask my slaves.”

Garak gave Bashir a look. Despite his ubiquitous smile, he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, either: his voice lilted in a way that told Bashir he was getting impatient with his interlocutor. Still, just seeing his face did a lot to calm Bashir’s nerves.

They hadn’t needed surgical alterations for this mission. Trebulites were not a race but a _culture_ , composed of aliens from all over the Alpha Quadrant. The Ferengi at their table was accompanied by a Klingon slave. Behind the bar, the Miradorn owner snapped orders at two Risians, far too submissive to be mere employees. And at the corner table, a Romulan was fumbling with choice parts of his Trill master’s anatomy.

Bashir flushed.

Of course, he had expected sexual services to be part of the package. He wasn’t naive to the ways of the world. What he hadn’t known… was how the visual would affect him. Without meaning to, without even noticing he was doing it, he mentally stepped into the Romulan slave’s skin. He could not suppress a shudder as he imagined being made to straddle a man’s leg. Rooting around inside his uniform. Kissing his clothed shoulder. The image was surprisingly vivid.

Only, before long, the Trill master’s auburn hair turned black in his mind’s eye. The dots on his neck resolved into reptilian scales. The temples grew bumpy and uneven, and the cheeks – oh – hmm.

His friend’s flirting must be getting to him.

He was pulled back to the present as Garak said: “– not without the support of the hovertrain lobby. I say, those cupcakes look most... beguiling. Julian, won’t you fetch us some?”

Bashir picked up the platter, hoping his face didn’t look as hot as it felt. His situation wasn’t so bad, after all. He only had to fetch this or that comestible for Garak. Didn’t even need to hand-feed him. That would have been awkward, given his current emotional state.

“Thank you, my dear.” Garak accepted the proffered platter and already popped a cupcake into his mouth. He also used this opportunity to catch and hold Bashir’s gaze, appraising, questioning. _Are you_ _all right_ _?_

That was one penetrating question. Was he?

Quite frankly, the answer was _no_. No, he wasn’t. It was bad enough that he had to sustain this humiliation – far worse than losing the valedictory to Elizabeth Lense all those years ago – but his mind was turning itself in knots, making mountains out of Garak’s desultory molehills.

“And he has raised corporate taxes at every _turn_ ,” said the Ferengi.

“Hmm? Oh. You’re right, Berm. I thought only two things in life were certain – death and Dukat’s bad decisions – but under this regime, I do believe we can add taxes to the list…”

Bashir sighed, feeling less like a spy and more like a spy _accessory_ : a cyanide cigarette or an exploding briefcase. The cupcakes now finished, his Cardassian friend beckoned for the platter to be taken away. Bashir collected it in accordance with his new role.

He mustn’t have been as subtle as he’d thought, because Garak clung to the platter a few seconds longer than necessary. He crinkled his eyes in – was that concern? – and once again, traced Bashir’s thumb with his index finger. Slowly. Lingeringly. The act sent a tremor up his spine.

As did the Ferengi’s next words.

“What… are you doing?” The businessman boggled at their conjoined hands. By and by, his features warped into an ugly sneer. “I _knew_ it! Those – those two are not _from_ here! They’re having us on!”

Silence descended like a slow-curling mist. Bashir and Garak dropped their hands. As if on cue, they locked eyes instead.

“Ah,” said Garak. “There’s that business acumen we’ve heard so much about.”

“Truly, this is the man who invested in plant fertilizers during the Great Five-Year Parafox Hunt,” quipped Bashir. He felt more like himself already.

The ensuing phaser blasts were as music to his ears. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad about the property damage.

They ducked behind a booth: first Garak, then himself. The violence was immediate and intense. _Clink!_ _Pop! Smash!_ Three bottles exploded in quick succession. _Crack_ _!_ A chair splintered in half. Bashir did a double take: that was not the doing of a phaser, but a _Bat’leth_. That Klingon slave had clearly not been purchased for his winning smile. Garak kept him at bay with a few well-aimed shots, but the trail of destruction was quickly nearing their makeshift cover. Oh! Oh! Would they get to roll? Bashir _so_ hoped they would get to roll.

The pair was beamed out before they could get into the thick of it. Damn – talk about timing. Things had _just_ started to get interesting. However, at the last second, Bashir managed to reveal his wrist-mounted dart gun and shoot a tranquilizer at Berm.

It was everything he’d ever wanted.

Later, in another, considerably more familiar bar, Garak leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, doctor, we did not succeed in changing Mr. Berm’s mind, but I did plant some documents in a choice briefcase on the way in. Which, of course, was the objective all along.“

Bashir felt as starstruck as the first time they’d met. Garak was so _cool_ sometimes. “It was?”

“Yes. The Trill who was sitting at the corner table is an attorney for Jisthaal, head of the Opposition. I’m sure he’ll find _some_ use for the material.” He smiled. “Does this go some way into slaking your thirst for espionage?”

“Hmm.” Bashir smiled back. “Ask me after we’ve slaked a different thirst.”

He raised his glass and clinked their martinis together. Shaken, not stirred. Like his heart today: cradled in the bed of Garak’s palm, left beating in his torture-honed fingers. Fingers that, incidentally, used the toast as an excuse to detain Bashir’s own.

Cardassian courtship was nothing like this: Bashir stood by that point. But he was starting to entertain the possibility that Garak had taken up _human_ courtship on his behalf. Damn it all. His eyelids drooped as he considered his friend’s bright eyes, his strange, exotic ridges, his brilliant mouth. Damn. It. All.

Sharing a celebratory kiss – wasn’t that also a hallmark of spy fiction?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or if you just want to say hi!


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